


'Til Sunbeams Find You

by engagemythrusters



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sleep, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: Jack and Ianto could never be boring, but nights like these prove to be the most interesting.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 9
Kudos: 117





	'Til Sunbeams Find You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blipintiime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blipintiime/gifts).



> This is for blipintime, who listens to my stupid midnight ramblings. And then _enables me_. _Stop doing that._

"—name was Margaret," Ianto says. "Thirteen years old. Or I think so, anyway. Birthdate was smudged, so it was either 1888 or 1899. I don't know which. But I have a guess." 

"Mmm," Jack says, his fingers dancing around the soft part of Ianto's love handles. 

"And it was in April sometime. The... twenty-fifth. I think it was the twenty-fifth. She'd be almost one hundred and ten soon. Tomorrow, then, if I'm right."

"Mhm."

"And her first entry was about her dog. Said he was a large, black dog with floppy ears, called—"

This is the best part of the night, in Jack's opinion. They're both sated and sleepy, and Ianto's mouth is loose. For the past five or so minutes, he has been going over the things he found in a small, mislabelled suitcase, hidden away in the bowels of the Archives. Right now, the leather-bound diary gets its turn. Jack pays attention more to the rhythm and tone of Ianto's words than he does to the content; he hasn't the strength to parse most things right now. The day had been a long one, and he is so goddamn tired now. And it takes a lot of focus to rub tiny massages into Ianto's skin, because fingers don't like to work after they've had a long day of typing reports. So, it's either understand everything Ianto says, or sit back and appreciate Ianto. Jack has a clear preference.

Pressing his lips to the skin of Ianto's shoulder, he zones back in, just enough to make sense of some of the words Ianto says. 

"—went for a walk, but she was too small," Ianto rambles on. "He ran off, and her legs were too short to keep up with him."

Jack makes a sorrowful noise in the back of his throat.

"He came back, though," Ianto says. "Just took two days. She said she was sad during those days, but very happy when he came back."

"Mmm," Jack repeats, fancying the way it rumbles in his throat and against Ianto's shoulder.

"Then she talked about her mum a little bit. I don't think that she—"

Jack slips out again there, studying the skin of Ianto's shoulder. There's freckles there. Well, not freckles, really. Too few and too sparse to be freckles, too many and too evenly distributed to be moles. "Spotty-things," a very drunken Ianto had once called them. An apt term. Somewhat ridiculous, but incredibly apt. Jack loves the spotty-things. Lovely against Ianto's lily-white skin. Such a pale man, Jack muses to himself. Ianto would never be this pale if he came from Boeshane. Or maybe he would. Maybe he would be pale and then grow _real_ freckles. 

"—turtles and pigs," Ianto says. That jolts Jack back into semi-alertness out of the sheer oddity of it. "Though I don't think Margaret liked them very much."

Jack gives another rumble of acknowledgement in the back of his throat.

"But she did like the ducks," Ianto goes on. "I think she liked ducks already, though. And she—"

Lifting himself just a little, Jack watches Ianto's lips move. The angle is an interesting one. It's... upside-wrong and sideways. Nobody ever views anyone from this angle, really. But, in any case, Ianto's lips look lovely. They always do. After they've kissed, though, the pink sort of... escapes. It roams a bit. 

"—headache," Ianto says, and Jack leans down to kiss him. "So she stopped writing after that, and—"

The corner of Ianto's lips move beneath Jack's as he continues to talk. And there is that little lift, a small twitch upwards in the muscles under Jack's lips that alerts him to the tiny smile. Jack gives him the faintest hint of one in return.

"—that's the last page," Ianto finishes.

Then he turns and kisses Jack properly, slowly and gently, lazily and sweetly. Jack closes his eyes and sinks into it, letting it (and his tiredness) consume him. This is all he is now, in this moment.

But moments don't last forever. People don't, either, but Jack's too tired for his usual "forever" worries. No, all he can do right now is mourn the passing of this moment as Ianto draws away from the kiss. But he understands, because he's tired, and Ianto's tired, and everything is... tired. He slides back down to the mattress, and Ianto goes down with him, his head finding Jack's chest. A slow exhale tickles Jack's stomach, and Jack has enough energy left in him to just barely smile.

Then his eyes drift shut, and reality swirls into nothingness.

And then his eyes snap back open after what feels like only a second. 

Oh, he knows time has passed. Even though sleep takes his precious hours away in a flash, never to be noticed or seen again, he knows that time has gone by since he slipped into his blackened dreamland. A lack of a warm body, no longer pressed to his side, is all Jack needs to know that time most certainly has gone by. 

Part of him doesn't want to get up. Part of him wants to stay and bed and let his heavy eyelids submit to the extra force of gravity that seems to only exist this late at night.

But he has to get up. 

So, he does.

The first two steps he takes are fumbling, stumbling steps that almost have him trip over the blankets Ianto accidentally threw across the floor. His next few are unsure, but grow stabler by the moment, until he can shuffle blindly through the dark towards the kitchen.

Halfway there, his eyes acclimatise, and he can just make out the shape of a man, standing in the open space. 

"Ianto," he calls, as loud as his tired voice can whisper. "Ianto."

Ianto doesn't stir. Jack can't yet distinguish visually whether his back or his front is to Jack, but experience has taught Jack that Ianto always faces away, and not to him. No way to see him coming, even if Ianto wasn't asleep. No, Ianto always faces the kitchen. Or, more accurately, the kitchen appliances.

Jack comes to a halt just behind Ianto. Best to leave some space, he's learned. A sleepwalking Ianto is not above swinging an arm out in retaliation to being gently shoved back in the direction of bed. 

By now, Jack's eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out more of the things shrouded by night's darkness. The moonlight (because there is a moon tonight, thanks to a blessedly cloudless day) glints off of the toaster, just enough to give some light to the room. Jack doesn't even know why Ianto keeps that toaster; it's broken, thanks to Owen. Well, Jack supposes the thing is better off here than in the Hub. 

Jack scrunches his face up, trying to wake up a little more, then decides it's probably been long enough that Ianto might respond to a little coaxing.

"Ianto, you ready to go back to bed?" he asks.

"I'm making the coffee."

Jack nods. "Right."

And Jack allows Ianto return to his standard sleepwalking coffee-making routine, otherwise known as standing in the centre of the kitchen and doing absolutely nothing. No matter how much Ianto jokes about it, he can't actually make coffee in his sleep.

Folding his arms around his torso, Jack thinks to himself that he's rather glad about that. He doesn't have the energy right now to wrestle a feisty sleepwalking Ianto away from the coffee machine. God, it's hard enough getting him back to bed sometimes. And tonight? Jack can barely keep his eyes open. Wrestling would be a nightmare.

Just when Jack is sure he's going to fall back to sleep standing up, Ianto turns.

"Jack?" he asks tonelessly.

Jack blinks his eyes back open, letting out a noise of acknowledgement. 

"I made you coffee," Ianto says.

He holds an arm straight out in front of him, hand closed in a fist, trying to pass Jack the coffee mug that only exists in his lovely little dreamland.

"Yes, thank you, Ianto," Jack says, unfolding his arms.

As per the usual routine, Jack has to make it known to Ianto that he isn't holding anything in his hands anymore (though he never actually was, anyway), so he puts a hand on top of Ianto's fist, then removes it after a second.

"Do you like it?" Ianto asks automatically.

"It's perfect," Jack says.

The following short hum is always Jack's cue that Ianto is ready to compliantly return to bed. Jack carefully steps behind Ianto—where Ianto can't punch him in the face—and steers him gently back to bed. Ianto only stops short twice, and Jack can get him going again both times with a kiss to the back of his head. 

Ianto collapses almost instantly into bed. Jack blearily stoops to collect the blankets from the floor as Ianto lies there, dead to the world. Jack tucks him in as best as he can, then climbs in beside him. As always, Jack's work automatically becomes pointless, as Ianto shuffles himself out of the nicely-made cocoon to snuggle up to Jack instead. Not that Jack minds. The nose against his neck is always welcome. Especially Ianto sighs sleepily against him.

"Drink your coffee," Ianto says after a moment.

"Go back to sleep, Ianto," Jack replies tiredly.

Ianto gives a nonsensical "nng" in response, then buries himself even closer to Jack. Jack will never be sure, because he always passes back out before he can be entirely certain, but he thinks that this is usually the sign Ianto's done for the night. No more sleepwalking or talking. Just sleep.

Jack settles his cheek on Ianto's downy hair, then lets his eyes close again for the final time tonight, welcoming the bliss of emptiness that lies behind his eyelids. 

In his dreams, he drinks coffee with a girl named Margaret, who has an awfully familiar Welsh lilt. When he wakes to the sunlight warming his cheek, he tells this to Ianto, though Ianto laughs and refuses to believe him. But Jack knows his dreams, and he knows Ianto is always in the good ones. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sleepwalking Ianto isn't something I really accept as a personal headcanon, but I had to write it. So it's a one-time-only headcanon, I suppose. Corner-of-the-mouth kisses, though? Fair game. I'm keeping those, thanks.  
> Thank you for reading! Have a lovely night!


End file.
